Page 14 of The Crow Games
“Will a distraction work?” I asked eagerly.
The mind witch squinted off into the distance like she was reading something written in the air I couldn’t see. Then she nodded. “I feel much better about that than I do about trying to fight that thing, but I’m more attuned to what putsmeat risk than I am others, you see.”
“I’ll take it,” I told her.
“If you get caught,” Nola said, “don’t expect us to stick our necks out for you. Not even red magic is getting through that beast’s thick shell. If it catches you—”
“I get it, I get it,” I chanted, eager to start while I still had the strength to stand.
Nola swiped a bit of sweat off my cheek. She rubbed the salty moisture between her cupped hands, then she blew into them like she was warming her fingers. Hot air built between her palms, adding to the humidity coating my skin. Red magic—pure arcane heat in all its forms—built between her fingers. She stretched the crimson puff of cloud into a red-tinged storm small enough to fit in her palm. It crackled and sparked.
Nola waited for Ruchel to give the word, then the soldier leapt to her feet and launched the cloud off down the street, away from the fountain. She dove back behind the bins, and her magic doubled in size before erupting into a fit of lightning and thunder. It flew off between the buildings, making a ruckus like sheets of metal being slapped together.
The scorpion garm screeched and hissed. He shot off after the storm, moving on his many limbs at a blurring speed my eyes could barely follow.
“We’ll keep an eye on that one and whistle for you if there’s trouble,” Ruchel said. “Now be a dear . . .” She stuffed her water sack into my arms.
Nola gave me hers, too. “Go on,” she said, shoving me to my feet.
I stumbled a step, halting when I reached the corner of the alley to watch for the return of the garm. When I was certain the way was clear, I made a mad dash for the fountain. I dropped to my knees before the burbling water garden and dunked my entire face directly into it.
The water against my dry, cracked lips was bliss. I drank exuberantly, slurping and sipping, sucking it down until my throat was soothed and my body felt full. I refilled the water sacks and my canteen quickly, then I dropped my braid into the fountain, letting it soak the back of my neck, darkening the bronze strands.
A whimper parted my lips, the relief was so sweet. Gray magic warmed my chest, revived by my lifting spirits, replenishing some of my lost energy.
A sharp warning whistle cut through the air.
I burst upright, wet braid whipping over my shoulder. Dagger at the ready, I launched to my feet. I expected to find the garm scuttling toward me, but no. What came for me was so much worse.
Chapter 4
“Only the worthy one who sits upon the crow throne shall rule the Otherworld.”– Esther Weil, Renowned Folklorist
The crow perched on the fountain’s stone edge, arms folded over his wide chest. Crystalline rivers cascaded around his boots, creating ripples in the water garden below. He cast a formidable shadow, the shade so dark and gloomy it was as if a funeral pall had been thrown over me. I could smell him: woodsy leather, salty sand, and the sweet, tart tang of powerful magic.
I reached for the revolver at my waist.
“Don’t,” he warned, and my fingers stilled. His low baritone struck parts of my ears I wasn’t certain I’d ever used before.
Spite kept me from cowering, but it was a healthy fear that stopped me from attacking. Followed swiftly by an unhealthy terror that rooted my feet in place. A bullet was a poor weapon compared to a crow’s death magic, a wilted flower against a broadsword.
“If you have something to say to me, spy, then say it.” I spoke with a strength I didn’t feel in my heart.
His dark gaze sharpened under his midnight hood. “Whatareyou?”
The question threw me off-balance. I blinked at him, fingers flexing around the hilt of my dagger. “I’m a prisoner here. A witch.”
Wasn’t that obvious?
He shook his head slowly, and strands of snowy hair fell across his brow, catching in his pale lashes. “The women you travel with are witches. But you . . . ? You’re trouble.”
I swallowed hard. Could the crow sense my gray magic with those piercing eyes of his? At full alert, my spirit stirred under my skin, pressing at the cage of my ribs.
“But I am a witch,” I insisted, my voice shrinking in my throat.
“Why did you come to the Otherworld, Trouble?” He stepped down off the fountain. His shadows billowed under him, lifting him above the pool so that he glided over the water’s edge.
I slid back a step, but his shadows pursued me. They crawled out from under his tall boots. Rippling like waves, the darkness lapped at the sand, drying out the earth until it hardened and cracked. It stopped just short of touching the tips of my feet. My spirit filled me to bursting, pressing against the barrier of my skin, wanting to push back at the threat of his nearing magic.
